by Jackie Ivie
All Others
by Jackie Ivie
A Vampire Assassin League Novella
“We Kill for Profit”
27th in series
Copyright 2015, Jackie Ivie
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form. This book may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others.
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
She was rather fond of family get-togethers. Especially weddings. Birthdays. Funerals could be entertaining, too, after the interment. During a gathering, she could wear one of her designer gowns – of which she had many – mingle with potential fluid donors – most of them inebriated, and the best part: it was so easy to arrange an accident. Not this time, however. She had specific orders. There was one target. One. All others were off limits. Akron didn’t want any collateral damage.
What a pity.
There should always be room for collateral damage.
Tessa looked about the crowd. The target should be fairly simple to spot. This was a wedding. Rain was threatening, but that didn’t bother anyone. They’d set up on a large pavilion. It had a huge awning. The colors were turquoise and silver, amid a liberal amount of white. Tables were adorned with white tablecloths, tri-colored bouquets, crystal wine goblets, real silverware. Turquoise, silver, and white streamers filled the space, wafting about with any stir from the elements. It was obvious. No expense had been spared.
Groomsmen – of which there were many – appeared to all be handsome men. Young. Fit. They were decked out in gray tuxedos, which upped the handsome quotient considerably. The bridesmaids were noticeable, as well. Most were curvy. Dark-haired. Attired in sequined silver heels and turquoise micro-mini dresses, with an overlay of gauze to make their dresses look a little less scandalous.
Oh.
Wait.
She spotted the target. A disgruntled-looking matron. Since both matrons wore silver gowns with a touch of turquoise, and looked to be the same age, the target could come from either camp; bride or groom. Tessa knew the hit was the groom’s mother, however. The woman was a widow of a decade or more. She didn’t appear to have a pleasant disposition. Tessa knew from the file that the woman was extremely unhappy about the nuptials. Her body language made it obvious to the casual observer. Her entire form displayed disapproval, from the frown she wore to the stiff way she held her back straight on the little chair. The woman didn’t believe a common barmaid was a proper life companion for her only son, a world-class neurosurgeon. She hadn’t kept her opinion of the bride to herself. She’d gotten more acerbic as the day neared. And her son had told his fiancée about it. Which was all extremely stupid, but attributed mainly to lack of knowledge. They didn’t know that the bride was a member of the Stephano family. From the Old World.
The groom’s mother should have done a more thorough background check. She’d have known who she was dealing with. Her son would have also known his chances of getting out of this union at a later date were about the same as his mother faced: None. The Stephanos had a lot of money and a lot of responsibility. A seemingly endless amount of political clout. They didn’t like criticism. They had contacts. They knew who to call to silence anyone.
Permanently.
Tessa sighed. She now had the target in sight. Time to plan. But she had to remember Akron’s words. All others were off limits. All others...
Darn. It would be so effortless to have an electrical incident. There were cords snaking along the floor, taped into place beneath rubber linings. Wouldn’t take much to push one of those buffers aside with a heel, snag a cord, rip it open, and touch the nearest warm bodies with the live end, and watch as they ignited everything else. It would start all kinds of fireworks. Just about everything in the room was flammable...especially the turquoise, silver, and white streamers wafting about.
“Hi, gorgeous. I don’t know where you’ve been all my life, but I’m so glad you decided to show up.”
Tessa turned her head. Flicked her glance along the man who’d spoken. It was a groomsman. Definitely not sober. His tie was askew, his vest open. The top three buttons of his shirt were undone, showing a tanned throat. And he had really interesting vascular structure. He held an empty wine goblet out to her with one hand. The other hand was gripped about the bottleneck. He lifted both.
“Would you care to join me in a toast?”
He was about average height. Tessa was five foot seven. She wore heels with her gown tonight. With that additional height, he was about an inch shorter. He looked well built. Wide shoulders. Flat belly. Slight scruff of whiskers. And he was blond. She really liked blondes. He grinned. He had a really white smile. Well. She had lots of time. Mommy Dearest didn’t look like she was going anywhere for a while. And Tessa hadn’t fed yet.
“Or maybe a dance?” he offered next.
She moved a step toward him, slid her hand along his forearm, relieving him of the wine bottle. The other hand snagged the glass. She put both on the nearest table and then stepped closer, making it an almost-embrace.
“Oh. I’d love to dance,” she replied and nuzzled his neck.
CHAPTER TWO
These guys were a bunch of freaking amateurs.
He should have followed his gut. And why hadn’t he? Because their offer was too good to be true. Their website was up-to-date. Their information was extraordinary. They’d arranged for a full investigation into a mansion in New Orleans, but their tech person had been hospitalized from a car accident, losing most of the equipment at the same time. They’d needed an instant replacement. They’d conducted online searches. Called numerous paranormal research facilities. His name kept popping up. They’d offered a week-long, paid – with the emphasis on paid - excursion to New Orleans.
Well.
What could be better?
Doctor Cameron Preston had received his doctorate in Parapsychology from Rosebridge. His field may be considered radical, but he wasn’t a fringe scientist. He was an accredited member of the Parapsychology Association, and as such, the American Association for the Advancement of Science. He’d been awarded a major grant to study paranormal phenomenon. He only dealt with professionals. There was enough scamming in the paranormal field. He didn’t go halfway across the country for fakery. It was hard enough to gain respect among colleagues. The last thing the field needed was a bunch of folks with a lot of gung-ho, little training, and no oversight.
Cameron checked his electromagnetic field detector for picking up any EMF. Next scan was of his portable audio recorder, for catching any EVP, or Electronic Voice Phenomenon. He had a walkie-talkie attached to his belt, night scope goggles and camera around his neck, while the main instrument rested in his shirt pocket. A basic ambient temperature gauge. It was still reading 72.4 Fahrenheit.
Nothing had changed. But it was just past one in the morning. According to most para
normal researchers, three a.m. was the optimum time for activity. He had time. And if he needed it, he had more equipment. It was in his van outside. He hadn’t brought it in because he didn’t know how much or what range of devices the Beethan Paranormal Research Group were used to. According to the site and their references, they incorporated top of the line scanners and recorders into every project.
Apparently, that was a bit of an exaggeration, too.
He’d met up with the BPRG team earlier this evening at the hotel conference room. There were four of them. All men. Wearing matching camouflage pants and shirts with BPRG emblazoned across their pecs. Everyone was extremely fit. Young. Some guy named Scott was in charge. The others were Lance, Tom, and Randy. They resembled a military invasion unit. Everyone sported the same close-cropped haircut, stiff-spine stance, clipped manner of speech. They had all the investigation paperwork in order. Signed permissions forms. Looked legit.
But they hadn’t even known what half of his equipment was.
He’d given them a listing. He had a Helium Neon Laser unit, capable of illuminating movement too quick for the human eye; a military intruder detection system, known as PEWS (Platoon Early Warning System); an OVILUS - used to convert energy into speech; a Forward-Looking-Infra-Red (FLIR) camera, capable of seeing and photographing items based on their temperatures: Cold items showed as blue or purple; red or orange for heat. He even had a paranormal puck. Nobody had even asked what it was used for.
He wasn’t as adept at tech as he’d once been. It used to be second nature. He hadn’t done it since grad school, and why? Because he normally led any expedition. He had tech experts to call on for any project. Hell. These guys hadn’t even used a psychic before their investigation. They didn’t even know of one to call in Louisiana.
Talk about going in blind.
They were investigating something known locally as the Ramsay place. Algiers. New Orleans, Louisiana. The site contained a deserted mansion and assorted outbuildings on a bit of overgrown acreage. The mansion was three stories of antebellum design, and spooky as hell. He’d studied the property history file. Boundary lines. Property transfers. Incident reports. Sightings. Witness statements. The Ramsay mansion was over a hundred and thirty years old. Phenomena had started shortly afterward. The history included at least five deaths with a potential for paranormal activity. Two were accidental. Two more included a mother and baby during childbirth.
One was an unsolved murder.
With a hatchet.
They were probably dealing with a spectral presence related to the latter. Witness statements of apparitions usually included a hatchet. Moans and thwacking noises would resound down the staircase. And the most interesting aspect: dark streaks continually appeared on the floor and walls in the second floor bedroom where the murder had happened. Despite re-wallpapering, painting, re-carpeting, and even replacing the floor boards. The same stains came right back. In the same places.
The newest owners hadn’t lasted a month before calling in help. They’d reached out to the BPRG. Cam had never even heard of them before this. That should have raised a flag with the owners. People had all kinds of options. They could have called in a research group in Louisiana, maybe a reality ghost hunting show that netted real bucks and notoriety - especially if they wanted to turn the property into a bed and breakfast like they’d stated. Instead, the owners had called in a firm with the right credentials on the surface and a lot of questions everywhere else.
Then again, the Beethan Paranormal Research Group came up first on just about every internet search. Cam had checked. Every time he started typing ‘paranormal research’ or ‘ghost hunting’, the BPRG came up. That took a lot of click-throughs, a lot of money, and/or a lot of know-how to set up.
The BPRG really should be a top-of-the-line firm. Nothing should raise eyebrows or spawn questions. One query would be their equipment. Two of them had shown up toting flame throwing units on their backs, everybody carried crossbows and mega-power squirt-guns, everyone sported a large crucifix around their necks, and one reeked of garlic. Cam didn’t know what they were hunting, but it sure didn’t look like ghosts.
Well.
Since nobody had checked with a psychic and knew where the best place for catching an EVP or EMF would be, he might as well begin with the high potential zone, or HPZ. That’s why he was in the hall outside the second floor bedroom known as the Hatchet Room. He didn’t know where the BPRG guys were. Cam secured a night vision camera into place on his goggles, lifted the walkie-talkie to his mouth, and pressed the “com” button.
“Doctor Preston here.”
“Roger. Go ahead. Over.”
“I’ll be EVP scanning in the Hatchet Room.”
“Roger. Over.”
“Anyone on the second floor?”
He got four replies of ‘negative’. One, after the other. A slight burst of static separated the answers. Well. That was one thing. They might not be ghost hunters, but they were well-trained and disciplined.
“If anyone comes onto this floor, or the east end of the home, I need their electronics turned off.”
Nobody answered for a moment.
“Understand?” Cam continued.
Scott answered. “Roger. Over and out.”
The connection went dead. Cam reattached the unit to his belt, pulled out his voice recorder. The temp gauge went into the other hand. He started talking into his recorder.
“This is Doctor Cameron Preston. I’m in New Orleans, Louisiana. On the Ramsay property. Second floor of the mansion. Outside the bedroom known as the Hatchet Room. It is 1:34 a.m. local time.”
He stopped, waited ten seconds, and spoke again.
“Is there anyone here with me?”
He waited again. He couldn’t hear anything, but an EVP might come up on the recording with play-back.
“I am here to listen.”
Another ten seconds passed.
“Are you here? Can you state your name?”
A breath touched his earlobe. It raised shivers. Cam fought the instant reaction to flinch. It wasn’t easy. He waited until ten more seconds had elapsed.
“Are you here now?”
The temp gauge started moving.
71.9.
71.2
70.5
“Are you angry?” he asked next. The temperature continued falling, even more rapidly now.
69.8.
68.
65.2
“Why are you angry?”
He waited. He felt a pressure about him. A slight wave of something reached where he stood. It had a dark feel to it. Malignant. He almost stepped back as it pressed against him. The temperature dropped again.
63.1
60.8.
It was getting downright chilly in the room. Excitement created more shivers. The hairs on the back of his neck lifted. He tightened his forearm muscle, keeping the tremor from his hand as he watched the temperature continue moving. Downward.
59.9.
59.5
A spot of light loomed from somewhere behind him, lightening the space. It got brighter as he held his breath. And when he let it out, his breath was visible. The camera clicked as it photographed that.
“Will you speak with me?” he asked next.
“Hey, Doc? Any luck?”
Cam spun, slammed his eyes shut an instant before they got seared, and yanked the goggles down. He reopened them to observe a BPRG guy walking right through a mist that evaporated about him. And worse, the jerk had a flashlight.
“You complete asshole!”
“Name’s Randy. Okay?”
The guy pumped the mechanism of his squirt gun as if he cocked a rifle. That looked like a knee-jerk reaction to the name he’d been called. The move still carried a threatening vibe. Cam watched the temperature gauge start rising. He didn’t need it for verification, however. The place was warming rapidly while the sensation of pressure was also gone.
“Nobody comes into an investigation
with a flashlight! Not when the others are wearing night goggles! Are you trying to blind me?”
“Oh. Sorry.”
The guy clicked off his light. That was even more stupid. Pure black descended all around them while Cam moved his goggles back into position. When he looked back at Randy, the guy had goggles on as well.
“So? Any luck?” the fellow asked again.
Cam considered him for a moment. “It’s a bit too soon to tell,” he finally replied.
“Oh. We’re not sensing anything outside, either.”
“You’re outside?”
“Yeah. Lance is at the pond. Scott is handling the graveyard. This place has its own cemetery. Can you imagine?”
“Easily,” Cameron said.
“Well. I’m not convinced.”
“Why are you here then?”
Randy looked at him for some time. It was impossible to tell the guy’s expression through the goggles, but he finally looked a bit reserved.
“We’re ghost hunting. You know that.”
“I mean, why are you here? In the house? Second floor? Bothering me?”
“Oh. Scott wanted me to check on you. I didn’t want to use the walkie-talkie. EVP recordings work best without interference, you know.”
“They do? Really?” Cam asked sarcastically. It failed. He should have known beforehand.
“Yeah. So I came personally.”
“I see.”
“So. Anything happen?”
“Not now,” Cam replied.
“Okay. I’ll go back to the carriage house, then.”
“Carriage house?”
“It’s like the forerunner of a garage. They’ve even got an old horse-drawn carriage in there. Moth-eaten and covered with dust, but pretty complete.”
“You’re checking the carriage house, then?”
“Yep.”
“Oh. Excellent place. You should return forthwith.”
“I should?”
“Yes. And soon. You’ll want to be in place before three. That’s when most specters attempt communication.”
“You need any help?”
“Me? Oh, no. Please. I think you’d best report back to your station. The sooner, the better.”